Relapse

I have been f*cking with my body again.

I can tell I am relapsing into old behaviors to punish myself for divorcing my wife. Sex clubs. Swing clubs. Strip clubs. I traffic in queer spaces because believe it or not; they are safer than straight ones.

"Clubs" have rules.

Rules. Codes of conduct. If someone breaks the code, the entire establishment rains fire on that ass. Queer spaces feel safer to me than churches. Straight spaces assume authority and power; queer spaces question both, with the very act of transgression via the actual unapologetic body in public spaces.

F*cking in public is an act of defiance.

In straight spaces, including public domain, sex outside is positioned as lewd; in queer spaces, it's regarded as personal power. Specifically, if the act is a not reactionary or drug-induced, but is a choice, a conscious act.

Ironically, since my final divorce decree, I find myself drifting into nonconsciousness. That's dangerous. It's when I stop being vigilant, the demons slither in and take up residence in my mind...

"I got you on my mind baby..." is a song from NF. His album, Therapy Session, is the truth about depression and rage. I don't feel rage. I don't feel.

I can feel me numbing out.

I can't cry. There's nothing to cry about.

I can feel the empty get bigger on the inside, crowding out any feelings, thoughts, or memories that resemble love.

No regret.

Just lonely.

"I'm a man of my word; girl believe that...

I know I should relax. Hate the way I react.

"Thinking that I'm good, but you know I'm about to relapse."

I am no longer responsible for my former spouse. I feel like I don't have a reason anymore. My marriage was a structure, an organizing principle that helped me stay focus, clean, and driven.

Now I feel like I have TOO much room.

No anchor.

No reason.

It's amazing what we will do for others that we/I won't do for myself.

I stare in the mirror, naked and slowly pick me apart. Shredding anything good that stares back at me through hollow and haunted eyes.

I drift above me, looking down at my grey hairs, my cellulite, my wrinkles, my love handles, thighs like jelly, and think who would want me? I can't cook, can't have babies. I gave my best. I loved the best I could--but my best didn't reach.

So, I sit on my hands to not reach for the bottle.

I play with my puppy, so I don't pop pills.

I let every aspect of me ache, so I don't dive into the alcohol.

I know me. And I know if I don't do something to calm the craving, I will hurt me in ways that are unrecoverable. I am an addict. Addictive behavior doesn't go away when one stops using/drinking/eating/fucking/spending/serving/sacrificing, etc.

That's how addiction works. There are amends, atonement, punishment required to sooth the empty.

To feel better.

To feel power.

To feel in control over SOMETHING.

I know I am relapsing, but I am doing so in the least long-term damaging ways.

I have to slow down again. Nothing bad. Just have to get back to balance. Too many surprises this week.

I just need to self-soothe... in a way that doesn't scar.

vor